


His One True Weakness

by MoiyaHatake



Category: Captain America (Movies), MCU, The Avengers, Winter Soldier - Fandom
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Angst, F/M, Gen, Masturbation, Other, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 21:13:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/891920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoiyaHatake/pseuds/MoiyaHatake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve discovers his one true weakness when he accidentally catches a very private moment between Natasha and Bucky and finds himself torn between walking away and giving in to weeks of suppressed sexual frustration and a lifetime of impossible emotions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His One True Weakness

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Единственная настоящая слабость](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2521907) by [zabavnaya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zabavnaya/pseuds/zabavnaya)



> Written in response to a challenge GIF posted on my plurk timeline involving a keyhole shaped image of two beautiful men having sex.

There’s not much to see—bare skin pink with abuse, curves of flesh and muscle, and the occasional face or hand or foot or hair with fingers—and he really shouldn’t be looking. He shouldn’t be looking at all. He shouldn’t be standing here staring through the sliver of space where the door didn’t catch properly watching his two friends from the shadows of their shared bathroom.

But the sound of heavy breaths, of the occasional curse, grunt, moan, skin slapping, hands hitting the wall passion that trickled in from the room next door have left him stunned.

There’s not much to see, but he doesn’t need to see everything. Steve thinks the bits of flesh and sounds are more than enough. More beautiful than the images on the internet Tony tried sharing with him in an effort to cure his virginity. And as equally heartbreaking as he traps the sounds of his own breath behind the collar of his t-shirt held tightly between his teeth.

He knows he shouldn’t be here. Watching with fevered attention and rose-colored guilt across his wet cheeks while both hands— _his and hers_ —work with the same rhythm and passion as the bodies in the next room. He doesn’t know when he slid to the floor, when the room became too hot and he’d pulled down the waistband of his pants to curl his fingers around need and want and desire and _squeeze_.

He shouldn’t be doing this. Not this. Not here. 

But it doesn’t help, and he slides fingers further back to tease tight muscles. Both hands— _his and hers_ —fisting tight and _glidingtouchingteasing_ until they are both slick with weeks of frustration and a lifetime of shame.

Shame and guilt that has him sitting on the bathroom floor, blond hair stuck to his face and damp with sweat, his t-shirt with _that_ shield printed on it tugged up and pants pushed down around his hips. So silent. So careful. So desperate. So needy. Watching _them_. Coming with _them_.

Soundless. Breathless. Face and stomach wet with the remnants of his love. Shimmering in the light that shine through the sliver of space between himself and them. For one moment he feels released from the madness that had been building inside of himself.

And then the light is gone and he is alone again.


End file.
